


Valentino Just for You

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (interrupted periodically with saccharine exposition), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hardcore fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Keep you warm on a cold day, Pairs best with Marvin Gaye, Softcore smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: Wine, candlelight, bearskin rugs, and 18th century dressing gowns. What more could one want?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 31





	Valentino Just for You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic essentially exists because, whatever else one may think of them, rich 18th century peeps understood loungewear. 
> 
> Some suggestions before we begin: 
> 
> 1) I ask that you allow yourself, dear reader, to simply succumb to how corny this fic is. Its essence is Old Spice and massage oil. Let the cheesiness be a balm to the soul in these troubled times. 
> 
> 2) If you do decide to soundtrack your experience here with Marvin Gaye’s immortal “Let’s Get It On” (which I highly recommend, having listened to it on repeat while writing this), I suggest you hit play somewhere after that second section break. When exactly is up to you and your own baser instincts ;)

Aziraphale looked meticulously over the garment, filled with a mix of apprehension and mischievous elation. 

A blue brocade banyan, trimmed with sable, acquired ages ago.

With a bracing breath, the angel undressed himself. Put away his clothes. Stood naked in the chilly air of the bedroom for a moment. He picked up the long robe and slipped it on.

The silk lining was cold against his skin, the fur terribly soft against his wrists and neck. He surveyed himself in the mirror. Turned to each side. He did look rather well in it after all this time, he thought. Hopefully Crowley would think so too.1

He had already double checked that he had locked up the shop and triple checked that the wine was in good supply. And the chocolates of course, and the plumptious grapes he had acquired from the little fruit vendor down the street. At this point, all there was left to do was to hunker down and wait for Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s ears perked at the sound of a key in the bookshop door. 

“Angel?” called Crowley from downstairs, sounding, he thought guiltily, a little worried at finding it all dark and quiet. “You here?”

Aziraphale surveyed the scene: candles and a fire in the hearth,2 coffee table laden with various delights. Now, to add the foreground.

He hid the book that had been keeping him company under the sofa and tried his best to arrange himself nonchalantly.

“Up here, my dulcet demon!” 

“What are you doing lounging about in the middle of the _day_ , Aziraphale?” Crowley drawled as he sauntered up the stairs, grinning at the prospect of having him unexpectedly all to himself. “Didn’t you have customers to not attend to?” 

Crowley walked into the little sitting room in their flat above the bookshop. He expected to find Aziraphale reading comfortably, little glasses perched on the end of his nose perhaps, steaming cup of tea by his side. 

That sight would not have been less welcome or desirable than what Crowley found. Only far more familiar. 

The demon pulled the dark glasses from his bedazzled eyes. 

Aziraphale was, apparently, made for lounging gracefully. He had propped himself on his right elbow, fingers curling gently, little gold ring making him look all the more regal. His left arm had stretched itself elegantly over the back of the sofa so that his torso was turned a little toward Crowley. One leg hung casually down over the edge, draped nearly to the ankle in brocade, the other rested on the seat, a bit of thigh, bent knee, and calf exposed—deliciously pallid against the rich blue of the fabric. And, of course, there was his profile. Something unbearably noble, there, imperial perhaps. Something that made Crowley glad Aziraphale wasn’t one for all that wrath and smiting. 

Aziraphale turned to look at him then. The firelight making his eyes glow, almost ghostly in the dimness.

Somewhere in his foggy mind, beneath the steady thrum of _want want want_ , Crowley could not help but imagine all the court painters from ages past, swooning, crying out at the injustice of not being able to capture _this_ in fevered brush strokes. 

“Welcome home, Crowley dear.” 

“Is all this…for _me_ angel?” 

Aziraphale huffed out a little laugh. Like a retort. Wasn’t it obvious? 

Crowley, for an instant, saw nervousness tightening the edges of his eyes. _You do like it, don’t you?_

And that wouldn’t do. 

Crowley _stalked_ toward the sofa. Tossed his glasses aside.

Aziraphale shifted further up onto the cushions to accommodate his demon, a hopeful, bashful, hungry look in his eye. 

“Temptation accomplished,” growled the demon. 

Crowley straddled his angel. Hips _too_ close to touching for comfort, a kind of desperate thirst bubbling up in the pit of the demon’s stomach. But Aziraphale had put so much effort into this. And Crowley was a patient creature. 

The gown was open at the neck, exposing a long V of soft chest. Exploring fingers ran through deep gold curls. Aziraphale’s head fell back against dark cushions, eyes closed, the pale blonde of his hair standing out like starlight against the night sky. 

Crowley’s hands slipped under the rich fabric to confirm with an involuntary hiss of pure demonic glee that there was, in fact, nothing at all underneath. He was possessed. So enthralled by the feel of Aziraphale’s fevered skin against his palms. And oh he needed more. 

Crowley lowered himself over Aziraphale, licking a long trail of desire up from his chest to his collar bones. A sharp intake of breath from Aziraphale. Again up his neck. A low moan. Pushing the heavy silk aside he bestowed extravagant attention on the angel’s nipples, each pink peak getting the treatment it deserved. 

He had Aziraphale panting by now, and Crowley was not finished. He ran his knuckles tenderly up the inside of one of those _luscious_ thighs to cup Aziraphale’s now throbbing angelhood. 

Aziraphale cried out and a guttural groan escaped from between the demon’s clenched teeth. There was something so delectable and torturous about this, about his angel so exposed and hidden all at once, like a shared secret.

“Aziraphale,” he gasped. 

“Crowley.”

Clothes were shed. black denim and rich blue hit the floor in turns, tossed aside between kisses, eager and sweet. Before long, Aziraphale was naked on his hands and knees atop their new bearskin rug.3 Crowley was working him open with a now shaking patience. As if every inch of his will was stretched to breaking. 

Aziraphale’s fingers clenched in the thick fur beneath him, holding onto it like sanity. 

“Please, Crowley. Please, dearest. I-I _need_ you.” 

With a moan that sounded like relief, Crowley was pushing carefully inside him, beginning to move. He draped his body over Aziraphale’s and their cries and gasps by and by turned the quiet air to music.

Sometimes, often really, Aziraphale could not believe his luck. Could not believe that here, on the other side of Armageddon they could have this—this frank vulnerability, this plain intimacy. No need to wrap anything up in suggestions, to hint or imply or gesture at the truth of their love. They could be here, shrouded only in the safety of their home, where Crowley was not a memory to be mourned or longed after, but a presence, as real and steady as the walls. Flesh on flesh. 

Crowley straightened behind him, hands gripping at his hips to steady himself, speeding his pace. Aziraphale pushed back against him. It was all too much, too terribly good, and heat was prickling over every inch of Aziraphale’s skin at the sound of Crowley unravelling, at the memory of Crowley’s eyes so fixed on him. As if Crowley would consume him. 

The rhythm of Crowley’s hips began to stutter and Aziraphale knew the end was nigh. They were both so close. Crowley's hand was around him now, and he brought them both to ecstasy. 

They collapsed in a heap of limbs, all sweat and gasping breaths. 

Aziraphale turned himself towards Crowley, running fingers through locks like claret and sunlight, growing long once more. He touched their foreheads together. “I love you” he panted “I adore you.” 

They kissed again, breathing each other in. A little sloppy. A little perfect. And Crowley, speechless and looking divinely undone, brought the angel’s hand to rest over his thundering heart. 

Crowley lay propped up on the pillows they had pulled haphazardly down from the sofa, Aziraphale’s back against his chest, head lolling against his shoulder. They had been here, in the aftermath of their bliss, for who knew how long. But Crowley was certainly not ready to move. 

They had also pulled down the dressing gown, spreading it over them like a blanket, a shield against any wayward chill. The fire was warm, but the old building was draughty, and Crowley used it as an excuse to tug Aziraphale closer. 

Crowley drank his wine, full-bodied like his love, and basked in the warmth of Aziraphale’s contentment. 

The angel let out a breathy little chuckle. 

“I say, Crowley, dear. I’m afraid you were a tad too vigorous with your glasses. Do they look cracked to you?” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” replied the demon, a shrug in his voice as he plucked a grape from the nearby plate. “They’ll be fixed in the morning. Besides, it was bloody well worth it.” 

Crowley held the fruit to Aziraphale’s lips. He took it, nipped at Crowley’s fingertips. Hummed a little with pleasure. Licked his kiss-swollen lips.

And that was too dastardly to let the angel get away with. 

So Crowley chased the sweet juice with his own tongue, turned Aziraphale’s smirk into something altogether more elated. And before long Aziraphale was panting once more. 

Only belatedly did Crowley realize he had been tempted yet again. He could not have minded less. 

  1. “Ooh! How gorgeous!” the girl at the dry cleaners exclaimed. (It looked to be in quite good condition when Aziraphale had pulled it out of the trunk, but given that it had been hibernating for well over two centuries, he had thought it could use a good airing). “Is it for a costume?” 

Aziraphale, helpless against the blush that spread over his cheeks, gave a nervous giggle that was awkwardly, embarrassingly-high pitched. “Something like that.” He couldn’t very well tell the nice young lady that he had fished his old dressing gown out of storage in hopes of luring a demon into utter debauchment. 

“Do you work in theatre?” She asked smiling brightly? 

Aziraphale wanted to discorporate. 

“My goodness look at the time!” he exclaimed, well before pulling out his pocket watch. (Clearly Aziraphale was not much of a thespian.) “Best be off.” 

“B-But wait, I haven’t made up your receipt. You’ll need it when you come back to claim it!”

“No, no. It’s-it’s right here, dear.” He fished the receipt out of his pocket and the poor girl looked quite confused. “I’ll be back on Tuesday, then.”

He hurried out of the shop, the bell over the door tinkling as he left, and tried not to glance back at the befuddled figure behind the counter, staring with thorough perplexity at the little pad in her hand, top sheet only half-filled in.

  2. Any open flame in the bookshop knew full well what its place was. Even so much as an overzealous flickering could bring about the full tempest of Crowley’s thundering rage. Whatever their fate might have been was between them and Crowley. But one thing was for certain: the matches and candlewicks were far more terrified than the plants. 
  3. They had purchased it at Crowley’s insistence, obviously. Aziraphale had not at all understood his enthusiasm for the rather garish thing. In retrospect, Crowley’s intentions had been quite transparent. In any case, Aziraphale had to admit that the demon had been right, and was himself enjoying it quite a bit now that all was said and done. 




End file.
